


Can't Pretend

by vickydd



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Laura Hale Feels, M/M, Mentioned Paige, Non-Graphic Violence, Self-Harm, Underage - Freeform, implied sex, mostly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7969939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vickydd/pseuds/vickydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Stiles reminds Derek of Laura, and one time Derek does something about it.</p><p>(AKA Derek angst, Stiles being Stiles, Laura being BAMF, Derek Hale deserving nice things, and sterek as a result.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> Everything you must know is in the tags, let me know if i missed anything tho. It's set throughout the series, mostly before pilot or after season 2. 
> 
> Title and fic inspired by Tom Odell's Can't Pretend, recommend you listen and read, but to each their own. Hopefully you like it.
> 
> More warnings and jazz in end notes.

  * _My arms are **tough** , but they can be **bent** , they can be **bent**._



“Der?”

He lifts his head from where he sits hunched on the bed, squinting against the light from the window. “. . . Yeah?”

The sky is windy and cloudy, rain droplets staining the glass where they fall against the window.

“You can go to her, if you want,” his sister says, the words muffled by the wool blanket she’s curled up in.

Derek blinks. “. . .What?”

Laura sounds bitter. “I know you were seeing someone. I know you didn’t want – didn’t want Mom to find out. You can go be with her now, if you’d like. I know we leave tomorrow, so if you want to say good bye, do it now.” Her voice cracks. “I’m sorry.”

It takes Derek a minute to catch up and his heart freezes where it beats in his chest. “Don’t be,” he forces out, trying not to growl. Laura doesn’t look over from where she stares out the hotel room window, a heap of blankets against the wall.

He sees her shake her head minutely. “Seriously, Derek, just go. I – I need to be alone right now.”

Derek was never very good at catching lies, as Peter would always remind him, so he mistook the bleep in his sister’s pulse for hurt instead. Laura never calls him Derek, always Der.

Pulling on the sleeves of his Beacon Hills Basketball hoodie, he stands up and hesitates before setting a hand on his sister’s – his alpha’s – shoulder.

She lifts her head and fits the side of her face on his hand, nuzzling shortly before pulling away. “I’m sorry.”

Derek nods before leaving. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

 

  1. **_Love_** _, I have wounds, only **you** can mend, **you** can mend._



In the third month after they’d left Beacon Hills and abandoned Peter, Laura comes home about three hours early from school to their penthouse loft in upstate Manhattan.

She hears the shower running, and assumes that’s what her brother is doing. She calls out, and there’s no reply, but that’s alright because she can barely hear him over the water so he probably can’t hear her either.

After making herself something to eat, she lies down, deciding to wait for her brother to come out.

She falls asleep and is woken up by the sound of a loud clatter coming from the bathroom. Blearily getting up, she notices the shower’s still on. She looks at her phone.

It’s been nearly an hour. What is her brother doing in there?

She rushes towards the bathroom and goes for the door, surprised to see it unlocked. 

Derek sits on the floor of their shower, the spray flattening his hair to his forehead, and Laura smells blood. He’s shocked to see her, and not minding that her brother is naked, she opens the glass door and puts a hand on his knee – the water is freezing.

“Der? Are you hurt?”

That’s when she notices.

Her brother’s claws are out as he leans over to pick up the shampoo bottle – the loud clatter, she assumes – and they’re caked with blood she can at least smell if not see. There are five deep already healing gauges in her brother’s arms. And legs. And side. His other hand is still buried deep in his side and Laura thinks she might puke.

She looks up into her baby brother’s eyes. Her barely eighteen-year-old baby brother’s eyes.

They’re electric blue and filled with tears.

Laura doesn’t know if the tears are from the pain, or the shame of being caught, or the guilt. The survivor’s guilt that the doctors had told her she’d have to deal with. 

She feels her eyes spark and she shakes her head.

“No.”

Derek’s claws immediately pull out of his side and disappear. His eyes fade and that cold icy blue gaze disappears. The tears fall out so quickly that at first Laura thinks they’re part of the shower spray.

“Laura,” her brother sobs, a disgusting bubble of spit popping in his mouth and she dives into the water and hugs him so hard that her arms hurt and she hears his bones grind a little.

She doesn’t know how long they stay there, but eventually they stand up and Laura turns off the shower and passes her brother a towel. He takes it, and the white fabric is quickly drenched in blood. He must have cut himself enough times that the healing has slowed down. . .

Laura wipes the tears from her eyes angrily and manhandles her brother until he’s sat on the counter of the bathroom, letting the blood drip onto the tiled floor. His hands are on his knees and he’s stopped sobbing, but his hiccups still echo in the small room. She pats the hair pack from his face, keeping a hand on him as she bends down and opens the cabinets.

Grabbing the first aid kit, she places it on the counter next to her brother and grabs what she needs.

She starts with the gauges across his chest. She dabs the disinfectant so forcefully that he hisses between hiccups.

“Der,” she starts, but he doesn’t let her finish.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Laura clenches her fist around the cotton swab and slams her other hand down onto the counter. It startles them both, but she pretends to be unfazed. She knows her eyes are red and she forces herself to calm down with a deep breath.

“Derek, I don’t care if you don’t want to talk about it, okay?” she growls, her voice cracking. “You _will_ listen. This isn’t going to happen again.”

He doesn’t respond.

She feels no guilt at pulling the Alpha voice out.

“Damnit, Derek, stop being selfish. Just stop. Swear to me, right now. Right now. Please don’t hurt yourself.”

She dabs at the wounds over his shoulder. He swallows audibly. 

“. . .I swear,” he mutters, his voice incredibly tired. His heartrate stays steady. A sigh of relief escapes her and she jabs more gently with the cotton.

Fresh tears fall down both their faces. Laura continues, voice softer.

“Derek, I am sorry you feel this way.” There’s a pause between all her words and they sound so practiced and fake that she cringes.  “I am sorry that this happened to us. But we can’t let it stop us. _You_ can’t let it drag you down like this.”

“All of them, Laura,” Derek interrupts, voice merely a murmur.

“I know, Der. I know.” She moves down to clean the cuts on his thighs. “You have to be brave for them, okay? _We_ have to be brave.”

She finishes cleaning his wounds and they hug it out there on the bathroom counter. Laura fits her face in her brother’s neck and doesn’t let go.

                

Derek had known that the Alphas we’re in town, and he’d known that there was a chance that meant Ennis, but he didn’t believe it was real until he was thrown roughly into a tree by the man himself.

Ennis smiled maliciously when he heard Stiles running through the woods towards the sounds of Derek in pain. “Got yourself another human toy, have you?”

“Don’t,” Derek growled from where he lay in a heap. Slowly and painfully, he pushed to his feet and made to stop Ennis.

The other alpha takes a stride toward where they can both hear frantic yelling as Stiles calls out his name.

“I don’t understand why you haven’t bit him,” Ennis chastises pettily. Derek swings and the werewolf dodges easily. “But of course, you don’t want to have to kill him too, do you?”

Derek throws himself at him until they’re both rolling on the ground, clawing and biting. When Ennis finally pins him down, Stiles is almost in sight. “Maybe I should, do you a favor.”

Stiles rounds the corner, and Ennis leans down to all but spit in his ear, “Good thing I’m not feeling giving, isn’t it?”

And then he’s gone. Stiles comes into the field to find a nearly unconscious and battered Derek, clothing torn and still half wolf.

“What are you doing here?” he grunts out, angry. Stiles could have been hurt so easily. Killed so easily.

“I think the better question is what _you’re_ doing here? Oh my god, I’m going to puke, that’s your insides. On the outsides,” Stiles kneels down and Derek stares blankly at him, jaw clenched in order not to groan in pain when Stiles jostles him. “Okay, okay, sit tight, I’m just gonna—”

And then Derek is standing, sort of, mostly leaning, and the whole world is leaning, spinning, and he knows he says more things and listens to more of Stiles’s blabber but he doesn’t remember anything.

Anything but waking up with his head leaning on Stiles shoulder – and he’s sitting on something, maybe a marble countertop, and there are bandages being wrapped around his middle, and paste applied to the claw marks on his face, and warm hands holding him together as he loses consciousness once again.

When he wakes up surrounded by a familiar scent with fresh clothing on and a hyperactive teenager going spinning in circles on his computer chair, he fights smiling so much that his cheeks hurt.

He misses Laura intensely in that moment, but his heart lightens considerably as he remembers the fingers that Stiles had run through his hair when he’d woken up distraught from a nightmare, still not fully lucid from blood loss and blubbering about Paige.

In fact, it lightens so much that when he leaves the Stilinski home well rested, healthy and fed, he doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

 

 

  1. _I **want** to fight, but I **can’t contend**_



Derek knew his sister was hiding something from him.

However, this time, it wasn’t the guy she was dating from work that she didn’t want to bring back to the loft because she knew he had trust issues, or even the reports that Peter wasn’t getting better, or even the folders full of life insurances and wills.

His sister was a lot of things, but quiet? Was not one. Sure, the fire that killed their entire family and made her the Alpha kudos to Derek had definitely calmed her down some, but she’s that outgoing, sarcastic, speaks her mind, independent, fearless, takes none of anyone’s shit type that if Derek is being totally honest, he’d hate if they weren’t family. She’s everything he’s not anymore.

He was. At least the sarcastic, outgoing fearless type, before Paige. And even with Kate; hell, he’d thought he was so brave. Doing an older woman. Now all he is is a shell. An actor.

An asshole too, if he was being honest.

(He always got a little bit of a kick every time someone fell for his charm and smile. Every time he left the next morning without saying a word.)

Now a consultant for the NYPD, his twenty-five-year-old older sister had grown up amazingly. She was at work all sorts of odd hours, but when she was home, Derek started noticing that she was distracted. When he asked, she just told him it was something extra for work. He wasn’t as faulty on his lie detecting skills as he was six years ago, and he grows suspicious.

They’ve grown extremely close (Laura had been close to his mother, Cora to their father, and that left him with Peter – no wonder he fucked up so badly), and he doesn’t have friends per say – not like she has – so his social circle is mainly made up of her. He works at a shady mechanic place a couple blocks from their place and enjoys it. He finished school last summer and quickly found something to do – preferably with his hands – so that Laura wouldn’t feel bad about leaving him alone all day. It’s not like he had to work.

Not with the death count he’d helped create. He bets that if Laura has kids, their kids will still have enough money to live comfortably, and that’s not touching on what he knows Peter’s got vaulted up in Beacon Hills.

God. Maybe if he ever tells Laura about what he did they’ll learn to laugh about it one day. _Ha_.

As an Alpha, he can’t say she’s lacking. But no one can live – _ha_ – up to his mother, so he’s saves his complaints. His anchor is anger, which also, not a big surprise there, and his sister’s is him.

And that’s a joke if he could ever spot one.

Laura doesn’t overwork herself exactly, but she hasn’t been talking to her friends as much lately and it worries him. Sometimes he likes to pretend that he’s a good brother. Tries to be the person she deserves.

She’s tapping her pen on her desk as she bites her lip when he comes up to her with coffee, and he barely sees the words Beacon Hills on her papers – which look like documents – before she’s pushing them under other papers and shutting her laptop. She turns the desk chair to face him and smiles, murmuring her thanks as she sips the hot liquid.

She’s wearing red plaid and a white tank. Her necklace – the one she got made with the remains of mom’s wedding rings – hangs on her collarbone. She’s got her legs up on the chair with her, and Derek could almost believe she’s harmless.

“I thought you said you were working on a case,” he inquires.

She takes a long sip and doesn’t meet his eyes, smile faltering. He hates himself a little more. He’s always the reason she stops smiling.

“I was,” she bites her lip again, a habit Derek has always wondered if she keeps in her wolf form.

“So why the stuff from home?”

She sends him a look. “New York is home, Der.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It’s nothing, I just thought it was time we went to see Peter,” she mutters, obviously a diversion strategy.

He falls for it. “You can go. You know I’m not interested.”

She glares at him, lips pursed. “Not this again.”

It’s an old argument, and at this point, they sound like two children bickering with each other like a broken record. It still doesn’t make himself or his sister any less irritated when it comes up. “Honestly, Der, you’ll have to go back at some point – eventually there’ll be business to take care of and I’ll have work—”

“No,” he says, nothing like the twenty-three-year-old he pretends to be.

“No, what? Gosh, Derek. When are you going to start acting your age? I already offered to get us a therapist if that’ll help but you just like to torture yourself, don’t you?” She’s up from the chair now, pacing, coffee in hand.

“Laura—”

“No. Don’t you Laura me,” she sniffs disdainfully, and Derek has to fight not to roll his eyes. She catches his look and rolls hers, her tone annoyed but not angry anymore. They sigh collectively. “We’re talking about this later. But right now, I need a stretch.”

She’s up and heading toward her bedroom, when he finally rolls his eyes and calls out to her, “Try not to spook any of the homeless this time.”

He gets a bark in return.

He’s too loyal to look at the stuff she hid, so he drops it. What she said is true, and if he expects answers from her, he’ll have to give a couple of his.

He’s not willing to do that.

It costs him his sister.

 

It’s scary how many ways he sees Stiles in her. Or her in Stiles.

He can imagine Stiles a private investigator or a sheriff or an FBI agent or anything the boy put his mind to. He can see the red plaid and harmlessness every time they’re together.

He can tell Stiles is keeping something from him, from the group at large, just as he saw it with Laura. The thought strikes him cold one day he and Stiles are researching something and he has to grunt out some excuse to leave before he hurts Stiles silly to know the truth or before Stiles notices the blood that’s dripping from his hands where he’s clawed himself to keep calm. To remain angry and in control.

After a month of Stiles deflecting, Derek confronts him. This is what got his sister killed, and she was a werewolf. He’s not going to let it happen again.

They’re fighting about it, until they’re kissing about it, until they’re grinding and touching and coming and on Derek’s end regretting it so much he leaves. He can’t do this to Stiles – he can’t love him. He can’t.

In the end, he goes to the loft, pukes at his own physical reminder of Kate, and scowls because he didn’t even get the answer he was looking for.

      

  1. _Feel, my **skin** is rough, but it can be **cleansed** , it can be **cleansed**._



On the morning of his nineteenth birthday, he asks his sister for the Triskelion. He tells her that he wants it on his back.

She asks him if he’s sure, if he knows what it means, etc.

He says he does.

She gets it with him.

He hasn’t had control since his family died in a fire that was his fault, but the full moon that month is different. He finds an anchor.

Instead of letting his anger control him, he feeds on it hungrily until he can see straight and his sister stops breathing harshly in front of him from holding him down. Her eyes are red, and he flashes his on purpose.

He brings out his claws because he can.

He lets his teeth drop and then pulls them back.

His sister moves back, impressed.

“How do you feel?”

“Balanced,” he replies.

“Huh,” is all his sister says, and she moves back, a little nervous.

Derek doesn’t understand why at first, but then he smells it. He’s letting off so many angry pheromones that she’s probably a little scared. He is too.

The next day, after they’ve both recovered from the moon’s pulls and lie in his sister’s bed together, she puts her head on his shoulder and says, “You’re like the Hulk.”

“The Hulk?” he asks, a little caught off guard.

“Angry all the time – that’s your secret.”

He catches up and nods a little, tense under his sister’s gentle touch. He doesn’t deserve it.

“Maybe it is,” he relents.

“It’s not good for you, Der.”

“I know.”

There’s not much else he can say.

               

The second time they fall into bed together, Derek takes it so slow that he’s sure he kissed every piece of Stiles’s skin before either of them comes.

When they wake the next morning, wrapped together in the Derek’s bed (because of course Stiles would confront him about the other night, of course), Stiles is tracing the triskele on his back.

“I used to think you were a little like the Hulk,” Stiles says out of nowhere. Not good morning, not hey, just that. And it hits Derek so hard that he tenses up and Stiles slides away from him, frightened. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I won’t bore you with my geekiness, just relax, okay? I’m sorry.”

Derek tries to find the words to tell him that it’s okay, the hurt he just felt was a good kind, still awful, but good.

“Shut up,” he cuts Stiles off, but relaxes, and the hand comes back tentatively. After a couple minutes of complete silence, Derek letting Stiles soothe the words out of him, he tries again. “Why?”

“Why what?” comes the immediate response.

“The Hulk. Why do I remind you of him?”

The hand on his back settles, and Derek his face away from the pillow to watch Stiles curiously. “Well,” he starts, a little flustered now, “you use anger, don’t you? For your anchor, I mean.”

Derek nods, and leans forward to kiss the tip of Stiles’s nose, because he can. Because he doesn’t deserve him, but he has him, so he selfishly takes.

Stiles moves closer and tucks his chin in the crook of Derek’s neck. He breathes in deeply before he continues, heartbeat a little unsteady. “The Hulk, if you’ve seen the avengers at least, you’d know that the way he controls it – it’s by staying angry all the time.”

Stiles takes another breath, and moves his head to look back into Derek’s eyes. The hand that was on his back comes up caress’s his cheek. “But after last night, and uh, before, I don’t think so. There’s no way, no way you hate yourself enough to stay angry like that all the time. There’s no way you were angry last night. I don’t believe it, it can’t—”

Derek kisses him abruptly, surprising even himself as he cuts the boy off. “You’re right,” he breathes, a little courageously, after the kiss. His heart is so full that he feels he can. “Anger’s not my anchor anymore. It hasn’t been in a long time.”

If the smile that creeps up slowly onto Stiles’s face is anything to go by, he doesn’t need to say anything else.

Instead, he flips them until Stiles is underneath him and plots their mouths together, giving everything to this boy that he wished he could give himself.

 

**_+   Love_ ** _, I hope **you** know, how much my **heart** depends._

“Stiles.”

He’s not listening, his whole being on a train that left the station hours ago and Derek is trying to catch up.

“Stiles.”

“. . . All I’d have to do is go and investigate, or at least pretend to investigate, because we already did the investigating but the point is that I’ll be the bait and then when the—”

“Stiles.”

“What?” Stiles addresses him, annoyed at being interrupted. His eyes look crazed and his hands are in midair, all over the place.

He sees Derek’s face.

“No, what’s wrong? Don’t look at me like that, dude. Do you not like the plan? It’s a really good plan. Lydia gave me kudos on it. Lydia.”

Derek concentrates. The words don’t come out like he wants them to, and he can tell by the way Stiles’s demeanor changes. “You’re not playing bait.”

“What? Yes I am,” he says, looking as if he doesn’t see what has Derek so worked up. “It’s like the _perfect_ plan. Lydia, dude, did you not hear me. Ly-di-a,” he enunciates, the epitome of teenage douchebaggery.

“You. Are. Not. Playing. Bait. Want it in Spanish?” Derek growls. Once again, it’s not what he wants to say, not how he’d like to say it.

Stiles all but recoils, and he hates himself a little for it. “Derek, I know that now that you’ve gotten in my pants you think you probably have some say in what I do, buddy, but I got to tell you,” he purses his lips, “you don’t.”

Derek might or might not slam Stiles back against the wall. It’s not his fault that the boy doesn’t stay still and that it annoys the living hell out of him. Plus, he likes having Stiles like this, an uncontrollable and unpredictable force all but cooped up in his arms. Sometimes he can even say what he wants to say if the boy is still.

“Okay, if this argument is leading to sexy times I will not say no but this isn’t me agreeing it is me being a hormonal teenage boy – do you smell that, that is the fear bone—”

“Stiles.”

The kid’s entire body does a roll of indignation along with his eyes. “What?”

Derek is quiet. He fights back the truth, but it spills through his lips the moment he meets pleading whiskey brown eyes. He can’t lose someone else. He can’t lose Stiles. So he tells him why.

The words are slow and a little desperate, a bit shattered and damaged, but they come out all the same. “Laura went into the woods by herself and never came back.”

Derek breathes in deeply, “Don’t do that to me,” he lets out.

Something dies behind Stiles’s eyes, an understanding between them that goes much further than any ‘I’m sorry’ could, and the boy’s voice cracks on the next words.

“I won’t.”

Derek believes him.

_I guess that’s **love** , I **can’t** pretend, I **can’t** pretend._

**_Oh_ ** _, feel our **bodies** grow, and our **souls** they blend._

**_Love_ ** _, I hope **you** know, how much my **heart** depends._

**Author's Note:**

> Derek is obviously very unhapppy with himself, self harm in bathroom. Laura stops him, but wither way, he's a werewolf and his point wasn't to die, just to cause pain.  
> Underage implied, hehe.  
> A little bit of their relationship is very vague in this fic, I'm sorry. However, it's how it wrote itself. Half at 4:00 AM two months ago and the other half this evening. Inspired by Laura Hale feels and Tom Odell. Also Sterek, but like. . . duh.
> 
> Comments and kudos are life! Let me know what you think! This is probably my first completed fic above 1,500 words, so kind of happy. Have an awesome night!


End file.
